


All But One

by CascadianRain



Series: So Long to Devotion [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Chant of Light, Chantry Boys, F/M, Purple Hawke, Questioning Beliefs, Sarcastic Hawke, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, between Act 1 and Act 2, saved from death, stubborn Sebastian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 22:15:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12118338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CascadianRain/pseuds/CascadianRain
Summary: 9:33 Dragon, spring in KirkwallOut for an evening walk, Sebastian is ambushed by a surviving member of Flint Company. After receiving a mortal wound, he seeks the help of an apostate who helped him once before. But Sebastian isn’t prepared for the cost of Hawke’s magic.The first of a series following Sebastian and Charlie Hawke's relationship, taking place mostly between game events.





	All But One

Not even the sunset lingered in Hightown longer than it needed to this time of day. Few folks were still about by the late evening and Sebastian breathed thanks to Andraste for that. Sometimes even life in the Chantry was too busy with the daily tide of faithful gathering for the Chant. During the quiet of the day, even the faintest workings of the Sisters sounded like the careless banging of an apprentice in a smithy.

Ten years in service to the Chantry had changed him. In his youth in Starkhaven, Sebastian had siphoned the frenetic energy of the court, of the busy markets, of the clamour of taverns—and thrived on it. Until it undid him.

Could he go back to that, after ten years spent in quiet contemplation? Would he stand strong against it, or would it tempt him back into bad habits and destroy him—and Starkhaven with him?

He prayed every day for guidance, but the Maker remained silent. The choices that shaped his life were all made at the suggestion of another: taking up archery when his grandfather promised him a bow, and taking vows to the Chantry under the eye of the Grand Cleric.

When he made his own choices, he’d thrown away a small fortune on ale and women and bought the deaths of those who murdered his family. Without guidance, he seemed voidbent on destruction and driven by whim.

How could he ever find the silence to be his own counsel? Starkhaven deserved a prince who knew his own mind.

Sebastian turned his face into a spring breeze still tinged with winter's chill, and closed his eyes. _Blessed Andraste, please—_

The crunch of loose stone under on a boot snapped his eyes open. As Sebastian turned to the sound, white fire exploded in his side. A man in the uniform of Flint Company drove the knife deeper, prying apart Sebastian's scalemail. He gasped without breath at the riot of pain.

Rage bubbled up, as though released from its chains by the blade, and he gripped the mercenary's arm. Teeth grit in pain and fury, Sebastian twisted the man's arm back until his assailant screamed and the shoulder joint popped. Sebastian kicked him in the chest, sending him stumbling back, and pulled his own knife from his belt.

“I thought I had you all killed,” he snarled.

“All but one,” the man spat back. “Sound familiar?” His right arm was useless, but he drew a short sword with his left, holding it clumsily.

“The deaths of your Company was justice for their crimes.”

Sebastian easily dodged the mercenary's charge and threw his knife straight for the man's neck. The momentum from the charge carried the dying man a further few meters. He hit the flagstones with a grunt and lay still, a rapidly spreading pool of red beneath him.

Sebastian's eyes closed in relief. _Thank_ _the Maker_ _._

He gripped his wound, fingers laced around the blade still embedded in his flesh and held in place by his punctured armor. The assassin's aim was true. If Sebastian hadn't dodged, he'd be dead already. As it was, all he'd done was delay his death by a few precious moments. Every breath was agony. It was sheer bloody-minded will that kept his feet under him. This was beyond the aid of an elfroot poultice. All the Chantry could do for him now was ease his passing and mourn the end of a line of princes.

The Viscount should recognize Sebastian’s royalty in exile; with luck, the Viscount’s surgeon was a nightowl not prone to drink. He clung to the thinnest thread of hope as he staggered toward the Keep. At the opening of the courtyard, he sagged against a stone wall to catch his breath. All he could manage were shallow, rapid pants. Was this how the Vael family ended? Alone, exiled, whimpering in the dark?

Across the courtyard, moonlight caught on silver. A newly mounted crest outside of a noble estate winked at him. The crest nagged with familiarity.

He wheezed a gasp as his memories unfolded. A young woman with impossibly bright orange hair approached him in the Chantry. She'd answered his request on the Chanter's Board: Flint Company was dead. She wore worn, black armour, a silver crest in the centre of her breastplate. _That_ crest.

Charlotte Amell Hawke.

He'd heard things about her. Whispers from Elthina's flock. A Fereldan refugee, risen from a hovel in Lowtown to reclaim her family's name after a successful expedition into the Deep Roads. And he'd seen her strolling through Hightown with her friends, all armed to the teeth and given a wide berth. Dangerous folk in a restless city.

There were other rumours too. That she wiped out an entire gang with ice and fire. That she could make a man’s deepest fears manifest so that he tore his own flesh asunder. And that when her hands glowed, wounds closed. One rumour, which Sebastian had discarded out of hand as nonsense, spoke of how one of her companions had fallen and with a wave of hand and staff, Hawke ushered his spirit back into the still-warm body.

There were healers in the Circle, but he'd never reach the Gallows.

His only hope lay in the benediction of an apostate—if Andraste allowed him to accept her aid.

Was his dedication to the Bride of the Maker worth his life?

_NO. I am the last Vael, I must survive!_

Vision fading fast, Sebastian stumbled to the door framed by Hawke's crest. His fist fell upon it once. He summoned his strength, and banged again. Tears gathered in his eyes as he fought the weights dragging him down, turning his limbs to lead. The night had not been so cold when he stepped from the Chantry's doors scarcely an hour before.

_Please..._

Like an answered prayer, he heard approaching footsteps within.

The door opened and Sebastian collapsed forward into swift arms.

“Sebastian!” Hawke helped him inside and eased him down to the floor. His body wouldn't stop shivering, despite the cozy warmth of Hawke's home. The night air crept in from the open door, caressing his cheek like death's eager hand.

Hawke didn't ask a single question. She placed her hands on either side of the blade, pressing firm. Sebastian gasped at the sudden jolt of agony through the static of constant pain.

“Shh...” Hawke whispered. Pale blue light glowed beneath her hands, building a single point of heat in his icy body. One hand still in place, she gripped the hilt of the dagger with the other and slowly pulled it out, stitching him together in its wake. The blade scraped against the bent scales of his armor at every inch.

When it was out, she tossed it carelessly aside, her attention never leaving his wound. Through Sebastian's half-lidded gaze, Hawke looked like a Maker-sent miracle, bathed in pure blue light. She was the most beautiful sight he'd ever witnessed.

The thought felt like blasphemy. He shoved it down, gritting his teeth against the guilt. _Andraste forgive me._

The white-hot agony in his side subsided to a dull throb while he swam through a haze that could have been the edge of the Fade, calling him to cross the Veil.

Hawke sat back on her heels and wiped an arm across her forehead. “There. That should keep you with us a little longer.”

Sebastian drew in a shaky breath, tentatively filling his lungs. The wound still ached horribly, but he could make it back to the Chantry after a short rest. He wouldn’t be able to lead any Chants for a week or two, but he’d _live_. He gazed up at her, clothed in a modest dressing gown and her long hair, usually tied back, fell across her shoulder. She watched him as though she hadn’t just performed an impossible feat. “You've saved my life, Serah Hawke. I owe you a great debt.”

“Ooo, a handsome prince falls into my arms and promises to make it worth my while. I might come to like living in Hightown.”

Sebastian laughed and instantly his face pinched at the flare of pain. “Ach, still sore.”

Hawke _tsked_ above him. “Did I say I was finished? You're off death's doorstep, but you’re still sprawled over mine.”

He felt her step over him, heard the door shut. A firm hand grasped his arm and tugged him upright. Sebastian's head swam. Hawke gave him a moment, then helped him to his feet. He leaned heavily on her, unable to put much weight on his wounded side. Hawke held his arm firmly around her shoulders, her other arm wrapped around him, fingers finding a hold just beneath his breastplate. He had no choice but to go where she led, too weak to resist her. How was it that he knew every place she touched him and the rest of his body was as intangible as mist?

Hawke guided him deeper into her house, down hallways that weren't long, but he still lost track of them, choosing to close his eyes and place his trust in her. She brought them the kitchen and eased Sebastian to the edge of a wooden table.

“Going to have me as a midnight snack?” He didn't know what made him say it. Some reckless wind, or perhaps nearly dying brushed the dust off the ways of his youth.

A smile flickered across Hawke's face. She filled a bowl with water from an ewer and searched for a cloth. “Are you sure you mean that, Choir Boy?”

She set the bowl and cloth beside him on the table. In answer to the questioning tilt of his head, she reached for the clasps of his armor. He leaned away from her in sudden panic. “Serah Hawke, I assure you, I require only some rest and I'll be on my way.”

But avoiding her pulled at his barely mended wound and he winced. Hawke rolled her eyes and set to undoing the clasps. Soon his white and gold breastplate lay on the floor, joined by his gauntlets and pauldrons. His belt and Head of Andraste buckle were laid on a stool.

Hawke stepped up before him and he kept his gaze lowered. Watched her fingers unbuckle the clasps fastening his scalemail down his chest. The pressure of her work pressed against his memories of women stripping away his clothes in invitation to claim them. Pressed against the idea he'd wrapped around Hawke and all other apostates: that they weren't the same as him. Were _Other_ , to be locked up in Circles and saved from themselves.

Sebastian's boots framed Hawke's slippered feet. She stood close enough that he thought he might be able to smell her— _please Maker, let that scent of cinnamon and apples be lingering_ _from_ _the evening meal._ Could an apostate smell so tantalisingly sweet?

Hawke set aside the scalemail, with its broken scales where the knife found its way inside. Despite his modified Brother’s robes, serving as a thick arming doublet beneath his scalemail, he felt exposed in Hawke’s presence. She was Fereldan...weren’t there stories of witches deep in the Wilds, who stole children and ate men up? Midnight snack indeed.

Without hesitating, Hawke flicked open the fastenings of the padded coat and pushed it off his shoulders. She leaned in, her breath on his neck, but she seemed oblivious to the effect she had on him. He took _vows_ , void take him, and he’d not fought for this semblance of inner peace to be undone so easily. What was wrong with him? Sebastian shut his eyes against the goosebumps raised in his flesh as Hawke's knuckles grazed his skin through his undershirt.

As Hawke folded the coat, Sebastian breathed in through his nose, fighting the sensations stirring within him.

“Go on,” she said, snapping him out of his attempts at inner quiet. “Lift your undershirt.”

Reluctantly, he complied, and dropped the bloodied, torn shirt on the table. He fought the shiver brought on by his bare skin. Though the kitchen fire was banked for the night, it held plenty of heat. He couldn't blame the shiver on the air. He stared up at a point on the ceiling, steeling himself. And then...the strangest sound...a giggle? For a moment, confusion banished his self-loathing and he tilted his head at Hawke. A smirk played on her lips as she regarded him.

“I only meant lift the edge so I can reach the wound.”

Sebastian blushed _scarlet_ —he felt the heat like an inferno. He turned his face away, refusing to look at her while she worked, and mentally retreated from the kitchen that he’d been forced to drag his sorry hide into.

Water sloshed as Hawke wet the cloth. Sebastian sucked in a breath as the cool cloth touched his skin. She hummed to herself, clearly still amused by Sebastian exposing himself so shamefully.

_On hands and knees, wounded unto death,  
Havard, once the Aegis of Maferath, crawled to the feet of his Lady._

It was almost a reflex, reciting the Chant. Why did it have to be _this_ verse that jumped to his mind?

Hawke cleaned away Sebastian’s blood, apparently oblivious to the tension in him. Her fingers on his skin awakened a yearning for pleasure that he thought he'd conquered years ago. Was that all it was? His weakness to the temptations of the flesh?

_The loyal shield, broken to pieces, found only ash_  
_Left to the wind and rain. And Havard wept_  
_And took the ashes, still hot from the fire, and pressed them to his heart._

Hawke set aside the cloth in a bowl of pale red water, her humming having tapered off at some point. The blue light glowed from her hands and Sebastian felt the breath of tingles in his side as her magic flowed into him. He gripped the edge of the table, holding himself as still and taut as possible.

  _His ears filled with the song of multitudes_  
_Raised in chorus, and before his eyes the dark skies parted_  
_And Andraste, dressed in cloth of starlight and armored_  
_In moonlight, stood before him, and he was afraid._

 He screwed his eyes shut. The workings of mages outside of the Circle was an affront to Andraste. _But he’d had no choice!_ The final Vael cannot fall. Has he—and his entire family—not proven their devotion to the Maker and His Bride for generations? Surely She would forgive him this act of desperation.

_The Lady knelt at his side, saying:_  
_"Arise, Aegis of the Faith. You are not forgotten._  
_Neither man nor Maker shall forget your bravery_  
_So long as I remember."_

 “I know that if you'd had any other choice, you wouldn't have come here.” Bitterness cut through Hawke’s voice and Sebastian winced. She must think him an ungrateful wretch. It seemed his discomfort was not so subtle.

He felt her leave the space before him and opened eyes reluctant to face the soft candlelight. “I—” The protest died on his lips. She wasn't wrong

She was turned away from him, busying herself with cleaning up. “Sleep on it, but you should be fit for the next late night scuffle you tumble into. You’ll not die today, Sebastian Vael.” 

_At this, his wounds healed, and he stood_  
_And gathered up the ashes, and carried them_  
_To the lands of the Alamarri, away from sorrow forever._

He _was_ an ungrateful wretch. He’d be travelling across the Veil at this very moment were it not for her Maker-given gifts.

“Thank you, Serah Hawke.” Sebastian stared into her face until she reluctantly met his eyes. He needed her to know his sincerity. Whatever else she was, she was a woman of good character, and he respected that. In a city that had shown him many faces of selfishness and spite, Hawke was a beacon of decency, regardless of which walls housed her. Andraste forgive him, but he saw no evil in this woman—apostate or not.

After a moment of uncertainty, a fierce smile lit Hawke's face. “Next time you feel like a night-time walk, find me. It isn't safe to venture out alone.”

“Your kindness humbles me, my lady. I will repay this debt, I swear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Verses of the Chant are Apotheosis 2:14-2:18 and belong to Bioware and the Dragon Age team.


End file.
